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Poster: bluedevil Date: Jul 31, 2012 1:16pm
Forum: GratefulDead Subject: Pre-emptive strike for Jerry Week

August 9 full moon. This is the day Jerry Garcia died. He was born on the first of August and passed away on the ninth, so it's nice to think of that span as Jerry week. It certainly seems that he well deserves a 9 day week. So it's winding to a close. I lit him a candle, listened to him singing Palm Sunday, and looked at his paintings in a big Jerry book.

August 2, the birthday of my sister Kimberly, was the anniversary of William Burroughs' passing.
While in my old house in Michigan I found my seventy year old bottle of Chartreuse squirreled away. I
bought it in the eighties with him in mind. We promised each other we'd share a drink one day, but we never got around to it. I reread his Port of Saints and looked at a catalogue of his gun shot paintings. I traced my son and daughter's names written in his hand on an old Christmas card.
Then I cracked open the Chartreuse and poured us each a shot. The green sugary liquid put me in mind of nineteenth century absinthe, so while I had my ritual drink with William, I kept in mind the likes of Paul Verlaine, Baudelaire and Arthur Rimbaud.

August 3, on the birthday of Beverly Lee, a member of the wondrous Shirelles, Arthur Lee passed away. I met him a long time ago. He was just a little older than me. He was soft spoken with a vague criminal air. Forever Changes left its mark. I was in Michigan when he died and I walked down to the end of my dead end street and sat on a bench beneath a weeping willow. It was at least one hundred degrees but I still had my trusty black coffee, steaming fresh from Seven Eleven. I played back Amoreagain and Orange Skies in my mind. These songs of Love are so deeply rooted I can hear them as clear as if they were wafting from a turntable.

My son's birthday rolled around. August 6 was the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. Over one hundred thousand people were massacred in that drop. Too many candles for one to light. I was back at my post on the bench looking out at Lake St. Clair. A huge Monarch brushed my cheek. I figured the butterfly, symbol of immortality, served to evoke them.

A few weeks ago I was in London. I visited a small bar painted green and lit with a green light. William used to frequent this joint some years ago. You can only enter through private subscription. I wasn't drinking. I was just visiting. It was three in the afternoon. There were a few old-school characters nursing their whiskies. Suddenly, in the center of the friendly yet oppressive silence, one of them cried out "Syd Barrett is dead." This took me off guard. But the fellows spontaneously raised their glasses, issued a " here! here! Syd!" and then retreated into their private worlds. For that one moment they were of one mind. And I was with them, saluting someone I never knew. Someone who made music. Someone who loved Arthur Lee.

Today is my friend Betsy Lerner's birthday. It's the day the United States dropped an Atomic Bomb on Nagaski. It's the day Hermann Hesse died. The day Jerry died. I have returned to the city. Children are racing up and down my street. We humans keep in mind. That's what we do. Tonight is a full moon. Guess when it sets, I will get me a cup of black coffee, sit on the stoop, and contemplate the bombing of Qana, the miracle of love and Dark Star.
Patti Smith

"There's no way to measure his greatness or magnitude as a person or as a player. I don't think any eulogizing will do him justice. He was that great, much more than a superb musician, with an uncanny ear and dexterity. He's the very spirit personified of whatever is Muddy River country at its core and screams up into the spheres. He really had no equal. To me he wasn't only a musician and friend, he was more like a big brother who taught and showed me more than he'll ever know. There's a lot of spaces and advances between The Carter Family, Buddy Holly and, say, Ornette Coleman, a lot of universes, but he filled them all without being a member of any school. His playing was moody, awesome, sophisticated, hypnotic and subtle. There's no way to convey the loss. It just digs down really deep."
Bob Dylan

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Poster: Mandojammer Date: Jul 31, 2012 1:42pm
Forum: GratefulDead Subject: Here! Here! BD...

Not gonna say anything else about this post....

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Poster: micah6vs8 Date: Jul 31, 2012 6:07pm
Forum: GratefulDead Subject: Re: Pre-emptive strike for Jerry Week

Best quote on Jerry. I will now join Mando.

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Poster: bluedevil Date: Aug 2, 2012 1:09pm
Forum: GratefulDead Subject: Re: Since it's now Jerry Week

From Patti in my inbox today (along with Tom Waits)

greetings from patti smith

We are in Oslo, Norway, and are about to complete this leg of our long Banga tour. Last night was the full blue moon. We celebrated the beginning of Jerry Garcia week. It was his 70th birthday. Jerry was born on August 1, 1942 and died on August 9, 1995. We believe his heart and his music was so expansive he deserves a nine-day week. So perhaps you will pull out your favorite Grateful Dead sides and play them for Jerry.

It was also the occasion to dedicate songs to the Russian members of Pussy Riot, who will stand trial for protesting against their president. A case of hubris versus youth and truth. Our thoughts are with these three young girls, and our hopes are that the President will look within himself and extract some compassion and sense of humor.

Our tour is going great! Banga is evolving as a live experience. We hope you like the record and that soon we will see you in a club, a field, or even a stadium.

Meantime, don't set all your eggs on the back of a frog.

all good wishes,
patti smith;utm_medium=email&utm_source=uscolumbia-pattismith&utm_campaign=email-uscolumbia-pattismith-20120802-nl303445265&utm_content=nllink-1217a7d6-Jerry%2520Garcia

OK. that calls for a tiny url...

August 1, 1942 - August 9, 1995

It is said Jerry died smiling in his sleep. Where did he go? Far beyond the land of Dead encampments, of fellow travelers joining a wandering carnival skirting the afterlife. Deep within his sleeping cells perhaps he reentered the atmosphere of his boyhood. Crouching in knee pants scraping the sidewalks with colored chalks. Lifting his ear to the sound of birds chirping his future note by note.

We are Jerry's future. We lift our ear to his music. And we continue to live, smiling ourselves.